The Precipice of Fate
by Josie Lange
Summary: A long forgotten ritual becomes relevant again with the risen archdemon and the coming of the Grey Wardens. Can the fate and destiny of a mother and daughter be woven into a single strand with this opportunity? Written for the Cheeky Monkeys Secret Santa fic exchange. Rated "M" for mature themes.


_**Thanks to the awesomeness of Suilven for both her mad beta skills and for herding the Monkeys (cats, really) and running another Secret Santa fic exchange. You rock the house!**_

_**This story was written for Rissy James; she likes stories that deal with family dynamics and Morrigan was one of the characters on her "like" list. The plot bunny for this story came out in November, when I was thinking of different ideas for the Secret Santa exchange. I always enjoy exploring the DA universe "behind the scenes," thinking of the different events that shaped the characters we all know and love (or hate). **_

_**Happy New Year, Rissy! And Happy New Year to everyone!**_

* * *

"Morrigan. Come here."

At the sound of her name, Morrigan turned away from the herbs that she had been hanging to dry and looked across the hut at her mother. Flemeth sat at a small table with her eyes closed, a bowl of water and a bundle of smoldering herbs before her. Flemeth's wrinkled hand hovered above the bowl and her eyes moved slowly behind the lids as she studied whatever image she had brought forth. Despite the burning in her eyes brought on by the pungency of the herbs, Morrigan crept closer to try and see what it was Flemeth saw in the water. There was a strange orange flicker in the bowl, as if fire was a part of the vision she had conjured. Before Morrigan could close the distance and fully satisfy her curiosity, Flemeth opened her eyes and waved away the image with a flick of her wrist.

"Fate has just turned, Morrigan. The precipice I have foreseen is rushing toward us. We must move quickly if we are to leap before the world falls into the abyss."

Morrigan shifted her weight and crossed her arms over her chest, trying not to roll her eyes. Flemeth was becoming more and more cryptic in her advancing years; her words were increasingly enigmatic and her rants more rambling and disjointed. How long would it be before Morrigan had to give Flemeth to the pyre? Maybe she should start gathering the wood for it while she gathered some for the cooking fire.

"Please speak sense this time, Mother. 'Tis arduous to try and interpret the meaning of your wild tales."

Flemeth scoffed. "You mean it is too much work to try and understand what it is I wish to tell you. So, I will speak to you as to a young child: the Blight is here, one that is much greater than any will realize."

Morrigan's brow furrowed as she looked at Flemeth's wizened face; there were no answers there, of course. "The Blight? How do you know this?"

"Would you believe me if I said that I heard the Old God's cry of despair when it became corrupted? Beauty turned to tragedy."

An exasperated sigh filled the air between them as Morrigan allowed her eyes to roll this time. Truly, Flemeth's mind was not what it once was. "'Tis not the time for more of your wild tales, Mother. Are you sure you are well? Perhaps you need more tea to clear your head?"

Flemeth waved a hand in the air, flipping her wrist as if brushing away a troublesome fly. "The world will soon teeter on the edge of a great precipice. You, my valuable daughter, are to be an important part of this. We each have a part to play in this story, but, we must act quickly; the Grey Wardens will soon come, and we have need of them. Well, two of them are coming, but we have need of only one."

What need could Flemeth possibly have with the Grey Wardens, Morrigan thought. Did this mean she had some plans for them? Plans for the Blight? Just what _had_ Flemeth seen in her bowl of scrying water? Morrigan was both curious and ambivalent; she had no desire to entangle herself with either subject.

She then cursed silently as she remembered that Flemeth possessed something that would likely bring the Grey Wardens sniffing about if they had kept up with their own history in Ferelden. It was possible that that knowledge had been lost in the years that they were exiled from Ferelden; a small likelihood, but still possible. Damn Flemeth and her visions. "Their name means nothing here, not now. Are they not a corpse long since picked over by vultures? Or is it about those old treaties you've been hoarding?"

To Morrigan's surprise, Flemeth didn't chastise her for her reaction. Instead, Flemeth smiled a knowing smile, one that hinted of secrets long hidden. The old crone rose from her table and moved to a nearby bookshelf. She paused briefly, an ancient finger brushing along the spines of the books until she found the one she was searching for. Flemeth removed it from its place, brushing off a layer of dust as she did so.

Morrigan had studied many of the tomes in depth over the years, absorbing their knowledge voraciously. Some of the books were in the common tongues of Thedas while others were in more ancient dialects. Some of the oldest books were written in the ancient Tevinter and Elvhen tongues, languages in which she only had an understanding of a few words and phrases. Flemeth had told her that those writings were inconsequential to her magical training, that they were little more than ancient stories and legends with little basis in fact. Morrigan's suspicions had automatically been roused.

Nonetheless, Morrigan stepped closer to peer into the tome. There were a few of the words and symbols that Morrigan recognized as an ancient Tevinter dialect, but there were many more she did not know; the pages were little more than gibberish to her eyes.

Flemeth stopped at a page not quite halfway through the book and tapped her gnarled finger on a series of symbols that was likely a title. "You are to learn an ancient ritual, one that you will perform on the eve of the archdemon's destruction with a Grey Warden. You will lay with this man..."

An indignant scoff burst forth from Morrigan. Flemeth had asked her to do many things with others—lead unsuspecting templars to Flemeth and their doom, or spy on the denizens of Lothering in animal form to name a couple—but this was, frankly, outrageous and disgraceful. "So, I am to be a whore and perform ritualistic sex with this man? I think not; _I_ chose who I will lie with, and for _my_ own reasons, not _your_ own. To what end is this?"

The silence stretched out once more as Flemeth seemed to study Morrigan's face. The younger woman merely glared at her mother, insulted that Flemeth would suggest such a thing of her own daughter. Lowering herself to such a level as acting the whore for Flemeth's purposes was not something Morrigan had envisioned ever being asked of her.

Flemeth raised a brow at Morrigan. "What if I said that the result of such a ritual was that you would become the mother of a god?"

Morrigan's eyes narrowed in suspicion "How can this be? You told me that the essence—the _soul_—of an archdemon passes into the Grey Warden that delivers the killing blow, destroying both. I know of no magic that will counteract that."

"That is because the magic is ancient and long forgotten. It is magic that those fools in the Circle of Magi consider forbidden."

"Blood magic?" Morrigan asked as one of her dark brows rose in amusement. This, at least, was interesting, though she remained skeptical of Flemeth's motives.

Flemeth shrugged, the gesture nonchalant. "One could call it that, from a certain point of view."

While a part of Morrigan was intrigued by the prospect of old magic and old gods, she still harbored doubts. She had not known Flemeth to do anything that didn't further her own interests to some degree. She could press her mother for information, but Morrigan knew that Flemeth wouldn't divulge anything unless she wanted to. Still, she had to try.

"What else are you not telling me, Mother? 'Tis not as simple as sleeping with a Grey Warden to get with child and save the soul of an old god. What's in it for you?"

An expression of hurt crossed Flemeth's face as she brought her hand to her heart. "Is it a crime to see one's daughter bring forth a reborn and untainted ancient soul, and to reap the benefits of having a god-child?" Flemeth guffawed loudly. "I am far too old to have a child. That part of me turned to dust long ago!"

A sound of disgust left Morrigan's lips; Flemeth chortled even more loudly this time, seemingly amused by her daughter's reaction. "Mother, I could have lived my whole life without hearing you say such a thing. 'Twas a clever attempt to deflect my question, which you have not yet answered."

While her sniggers trailed off, Flemeth marked the page of the tome with the attached ribbon and closed it. She grabbed a nearby basket and tucked the tome within before moving to the door leading outside. "I'm off to gather the herbs we will need. Rest up, girl. Tomorrow, we begin the training."

"Mother!" Morrigan said, her annoyance at Flemeth's evasion clearly evident. "Do not dismiss me without answering my questions!"

"Tomorrow," Flemeth said as she opened the door. "Your questions will be answered tomorrow." She closed the door behind her, leaving Morrigan to her thoughts.

* * *

Outside, the sounds of the swamp filled the air around Flemeth, yet still drew silent in the area immediately around her. Even after all these years among them, the creatures still sensed that _she_ was the greatest predator in the swamp. Flemeth chuckled softly; it _was _true, of course.

Flemeth moved off of the narrow path and examined some fallen tree trunks as she looked for a particular mushroom that grew on them. A dull ache throbbed in her lower back as she bent over to examine the trunks. This body was growing old and would soon outlive its usefulness. Though she had known that a Blight was coming for some time now, not even she could have predicted the fortuitousness of the timing. Morrigan was nearly at the apex of her ability—well, as near to the apex as Flemeth would allow—which was well and good for Flemeth by itself. That Morrigan's peaking and the rise of the archdemon had coincided so perfectly… it was an opportunity Flemeth had spent a long, long time waiting for.

But, now, it came down to one question: should she choose Morrigan or wait for the child? Such an opportunity was a rare thing, and such a decision couldn't be made in mere moments. She had waited this long for fate to turn her way; she could wait a short while longer while she contemplated her decision.

In the meantime, Flemeth had to ensure that Morrigan would perform the ritual that would set events into motion. She chuckled to herself as she plucked a handful of elfroot from the earth nearby; it would hardly to do make such grandiose plans and not have the catalyst of those plans do her part. That was an irony that she could appreciate, yet she also wanted no part of it. Fortunately, there _were_ ways to influence Morrigan. After all, who knew a daughter better than her own mother?

* * *

The room around her was finely appointed, with a large, comfortable bed along one wall and a warmly lit fireplace on the wall opposite. The bed was unlike few she had slept in before; her bed in the old hut had had a thin, threadbare mattress and an old fur for a comforter. In camp, she was lucky to have a woven straw mat to lie on and a rough spun wool blanket to cover herself with. This bed had a thick mattress, a finely woven and wonderfully warm blanket, and a top cover of soft rabbit fur. The Arlessa may have been a nagging shrew, but she certainly knew how to furnish a bedroom.

Morrigan blinked and looked about, unsure of how she had arrived at this place. The last thing that she remembered was crawling into her bed after Flemeth had told her about the new training that she would be embarking on the next day. Now, she was in this fine bedroom in a fine estate. How had that happened so quickly?

Nearby, she found her robes neatly folded on the top of a small cedar chest. Looking down at herself, Morrigan gasped to see that she was nearly naked; she wore only her thick golden necklace and her smalls. A part of her was surprised to see herself in this state, but another, greater, part of her felt as if this was expected… wanted… and, most of all, she felt triumphant and smug, as if she was somehow getting exactly what she wanted.

A man suddenly stood before her: well-muscled, but not overly bulky. His bare chest was littered with scars in varying degrees of age; some were thin and white, suggesting the scars of a youth spent in sword play. Others were an angry red, some of which were only recently healed. She recognized one on his right side, a scar given to him by a hurlock as they had crossed the Bannorn from Denerim. She had watched nervously as a Circle mage had healed it with a spell. The man before her was intimately familiar, though his face was hidden in a dark, hazy shadow.

She reached up and ran a finger down his warm skin, tracing along the contours of his chest as she breathed in the scent of the soap he had washed himself with. Calloused hands touched the curves of her hips before moving across her stomach and up to cup her breasts. Her body responded to his touch; she couldn't help but gasp when he brushed his thumbs over her nipples, sending spikes of desire through her. Her body begged for more as she pressed herself up against him, pressing the part of her that was most insistent against his erection. She longed for his touch where she needed it most: a finger, a tongue, a thrust.

He leaned forward and brushed his teeth against her neck; his hands moved to her back to pull her closer, whispering something too indistinct for Morrigan to hear as he did so. She tilted her head to give his teeth more skin to explore while she ground her hips against him. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest as his hands moved down to her smalls. He maneuvered his hands inside them and cupped her behind as his lips moved across her chin. The ferocity of his kiss—his tongue plunging inside her mouth—stifled any moans Morrigan might have given him.

There was a flash of light, and Morrigan found herself atop her lover. His hands were tightly gripping her hips as he completely filled her, a decadent feeling of fullness spreading through her body. There was an aura of magic surrounding them, warm and powerful, increasing in intensity with every thrust. She had never felt such wanton, lustful power over man and magic before, and she reveled in it. If this was how she felt now, what type of power would she feel when the ancient soul slept and grew inside her? It was intoxicating.

Her lover's thrusting suddenly grew faster and harder, and he growled with the intensity of the effort. Morrigan began to focus the magic deep inside her as she moved her hips in concert with his. She felt her peak hastening toward her as the magic further focused itself, her muscles tightening around her lover as he began to twitch inside her. With a gruff moan, he thrust up into her twice more and held himself deep inside. Morrigan gasped as the magic grew impossibly hot with the completion of the act, yet it did not burn her, nor seemed to burn him.

It was done… and there was raspy laughter around her.

There was another flash, and Morrigan found herself outdoors at the top of a tall tower; an impossibly large dragon on the rooftop not far away. It roared in pain and outrage as arrows and steel landed in its dark flesh, its cries drowning out the sounds of men and darkspawn as they fought to mutual death. She had not had time to see more when, suddenly, a blinding column of white light rose from the dragon and turned night into day. As she watched the light disappear into the dark clouds above, a small white orb raced across the top of the building toward her, drawn to her like a beacon. She smiled and opened her arms, welcoming the presence into her. For an instant, she felt a surge of power and knowledge, eons of memories and understanding surging through her before falling silent, as if the intelligence inside her had drifted into a deep sleep.

And it had… resting before it would rise gloriously—and untainted—once more. Faint laughter again echoed around her; it was the sound of triumph. Familiar...

* * *

Morrigan woke with a start. Her hands had been near her womb, whether in pleasure or protection, she was unsure. The perplexing laughter faded from her memory, but the pleasure and touch of her unknown lover remained. There was a decadent feeling of fullness that remained for a moment, to be replaced by a feeling of warm satisfaction and the aura of residual power. She sat up in bed and stretched, yawning and sighing contentedly as she did so. She hadn't had a dream like _that_ before, and it was pleasing to her.

"Ah, you're awake. Did you sleep well?"

Morrigan turned toward where Flemeth stood not far from her bed. She held a steaming cup in her hand, which she offered to Morrigan as the younger witch swung her legs off the side. She nodded her thanks to her mother, accepting the cup and taking a sip of the fragrant tea inside.

"Yes, Mother, 'twas quite… restful." Morrigan stood, taking another sip of the tea. It was particularly strong this morning; Flemeth likely added too many herbs or not enough water. She was getting more and more careless about such things of late. "Now, you said that there was a ritual to learn?"

"Yes, Morrigan. Get dressed and we'll begin as soon as you've eaten."

Flemeth turned her back and left Morrigan to her tea, a slow and knowing smile spreading across her face. Fate was going exactly to plan.


End file.
